


never half-hearted, ever hesitant

by Saul



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Fic Exchange, M/M, Neil Needs to Calm Down, Ye Olde Faux Medieval Fantasy, maybe one day - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:46:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saul/pseuds/Saul
Summary: In which Neil strikes a deal with a witch: complete obscurity in his past, present and future, for the small price of his soulmate.Now if only he could find his soulmate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is dedicated to [Noah](http://wonwuo.tumblr.com/) for the [atfg exchange](http://aftgexchange.tumblr.com/). it's not very winter-y and ran away quite a bit in terms of the prompt, but I hope you enjoy!!

"You'll have to make a bargain."

"A bargain?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

The hole in the busy downtown wall breathed better than expected: though its ceiling slumped and its floors sighed, the walls close and the main room narrow, its occupant used its space wisely. Though off-center and small, the window and its lace curtains stole the show, casting disjointed blue light across a quaint two-person table and a sparkling kitchenette. Dried herbs hung on a polished rack. Incense, light and warm, burned atop the icebox. A big dog slept on her low, pastel bed, a smaller, sleeker dog curled next to it. A large bird, its plumage full of brilliant reds, golds and tans, preened a wing from its perch on the headboard. Despite the extra bodies, the room persisted in its air of open friendliness.

Neil’s claustrophobia, then, was due entirely to his own demons. He had his elbows on the quaint table’s surface, his hands folded carefully in between he and the witch.

The witch sipped from a chipped tea-cup. When he had arrived, she had the grace to offer him a cup. He had the paranoia to assure her that he was just fine, thank you, and that what he wanted wouldn’t take long at all.

“People warn against bargains with witches.”

The witch smiled.

"Forgive me for being blunt, but you don't seem like the type to listen to what others have to say."

Without looking up from its fine feathers, the bird chirped what Neil could only think of as a laugh. 

He didn’t let his smile fall. That it twitched at all - and it did, he felt and saw it in the witch’s twinkling eyes - was proof of his desperation. It had to be, as his mother’s training for blending in had never been at fault before; any flaws, he knew, came only after her death and the escalation of his father’s hunt.

The witch, as was her wont (if any were better at manipulating impressions, it would be a witch), kindly ignored his facade’s break and made her bid clear.

She said, “I want fate’s red thread.”

He said, eyebrows furrowing, “I haven’t any thread.”

“Everyone has thread. Oh, the yarn some people weave-- you’d be astounded. But, for what it matters between us, I don’t want just any thread. I want your red thread.” 

The witch, as was her wont, made no sense. He hadn’t any dealings with witches before, but he was sure this was part of their usual.

Feeling like his foot was being pulled one way and his chain yanked the other, Neil sat back, re-folded his hands in his lap, and narrowed his eyes at her. 

She took a sip of her tea and stared back. After a moment, she happily clarified.

“Your red thread. The bit that connects you and your soulmate.”

“I haven’t a--”

“Everyone has a soulmate,” she said in a voice trying very hard not to be chiding. 

Narrowed eyes narrowed further into a full-out glare.

Her smile widened.

Soulmates were a thing of legend, sure. Like witches, but less - as in witches existed, and soulmates didn’t. Witches were rare. Witches were wily. Witches had disappeared by the hands of anti-magic law and humanity’s jealousy. Soulmates - a pair destined to meet, to share dreams and thoughts and feelings and a heap of other mushy, compromising crap - were the wishful thinking of a thousand lonely hearts, too scared to open up and too lazy to commit.

He had spent over three-quarters of his mother’s remaining gold to find this witch, and she had the gale to tell him to find a _soulmate?_

The bird finished with its wing, craned its long head and tiny, spear-like head toward them, and cackled another laugh.

All at once, he felt his patience drain away.

He was tired. He was dirty. He had walked two days and two nights to arrive at this po-dunk town and find the witch. His father’s men were surely no more than a step behind him; if he left this faux welcoming room without protection, he would be captured and, if he was lucky, killed.

“If I’ve one,” he said, voice cold, “they died. Most people who meet me do. And, in that case, there must be something else you’d like.”

“If you’d like to be someone you’re not,” she replied, voice warm, “if you’d like a witch’s disguise, if you’d like to be forgotten as soon as you’re seen, you’ll need to give up everything you are. That includes the one fated to be a part of you.”

“Check,” he challenged, “check and see. They’re dead. You can have whatever’s left.”

Her smile went lopsided. It looked pitying. 

Starting a ten-count in his head, hands clenched tight in his lap, Neil reminded himself of all the problems a witch could make without him even realizing. 

Raising a hand, she bid the animals on the bed to come to her. The small dog opened one eye, stretched, yawned, and went back to sleep. The bigger one protested only the smaller one’s movement. Staring at them both, the bird clicked its beak unhappily, clearly unimpressed with its fellows, and then, in two great wing beats, leapt itself from the headboard to the witch’s shoulder. It shook out its wings after, its talons prickling into the witch’s wool sweater, its noises discontent until the witch smoothed a hand over its head.

Neil did not flinch at the abrupt flurry of action, but that was solely thanks to his mother’s training.

“My familiar would know if you lacked a thread, especially one that holds my interest. Rest assured, yours is very much in tact.”

For his ten-count for patience, he found himself stuttering at _eight_.

“Then take it.”

“You need to complete it.”

“Is that right.”

“It is.”

“Are you telling me to go out and get married? So it’s true, all witches ever want are a person’s first born.”

“Nothing so extravagant. You simply need to meet them, and take their pinky finger.”

_Eight, nine, te--_

“ _What?_ ”

The witch wiggled her pinky finger at him. Her familiar, the bird, gave him a look so sly, he wanted to pull out its tail feathers.

“Their pinky finger,” she repeated, “bring that to me, and I’ll grant your wish.”

He stared at her, and then at the bird.

“How am I supposed to find my soulmate? If the meeting’s fated, that could take… years.”

Not that he had years - he could barely count on a tomorrow - but it was, he felt, the principle of the thing.

This, at least, she agreed with.

“My Allison will help you track them down. She has a great eye for fate.”

“Allison?”

The bird, bright and brilliant and bewildered, squawked. The witch patted it on the head. It took Neil a long moment to realize she was nodding to both him and the creature. 

Her familiar.

Her… Allison.

A great big, uncomfortably sentient bird.

It looked at him with distaste. He looked back with equal displeasure.

“You best be along,” the witch mused, “before that thread stretches thinner.”

\-----

Desperation had sparked Neil’s search for the witch. His mother a year dead and his skin twice pock-marked by his hunters’ arrows (which was twice more than _any_ year with his mother), he had faced the fact he didn’t have what it took to make it alone. Joining a group was out of the question. That went against his mother’s teachings. Fortunately, she had never barred magical help. She had never thought either of them would use it.

He’d thought it would’ve taken longer to find the witch than for the hunters to find him, but somehow, within a month of looking, a merchant nursing a mug of mead had sighed about the Walker of the Court hitching a ride with their caravan on the way back from who-knew-where. The Walker, Neil learned without having to ask or pester or otherwise make himself known, was known for her wards, her discretion, and her generosity. She had withstood the test of the royal family’s shift from Palmetto to Troy and the subsequent crack-down on magical practice. Despite her kind’s subjection, she was known to be kind to all, Palmetto loyalist and Trojan dog notwithstanding. 

She was also known for her gorgeous wreaths, which she weaved every winter and which never lost their charming aroma of pine-needles and chestnut, but that wasn’t very relevant to Neil’s case.

Or so he thought. The wreaths helped him find her: a fair number of the people in her town kept theirs up all year, and while he stood staring at one wondering what was so special, a kindly old grandfather told him if he wanted his own, Miss Walker lived in two houses down. 

Sure enough, she did. She even welcomed him in from her building’s porch. 

It went so well it made his skin crawl. He didn’t like how she had tea already brewing, how she hadn’t bothered trying to shake his hand, how she was pleasant and to the point and respectful of his wish to talk business rather than up-coming holidays. 

She didn’t pry into his reasons for needing her. She told him the terms, gave him a bird to help with his task, assured him his hunters would not bother him within the town’s limits, and sent them on their way.

“You’re so tense. I feel like I’m perched on a statue.”

Their way involved climbing aboard a fur trader’s north bound caravan. Neil did it with full disclosure to the trader that he only needed a ride to third closest town. The trader thought that an odd measure of distance, but Neil didn’t know how to explain that the bird was his navigator and that she sucked at specifics without drawing even more attention.

“Ooh, look at those shawls. Pull over.”

“We can’t pull over, we’re on a wagon.”

“Tell the lead that we need to make an emergency stop.”

“You don’t even have any shoulders for a shawl.”

“What’s your point?”

Neil closed his mouth.

The bird raised an eyebrow without possessing any eyebrows, ruffled her feathers, and turned her head from the flea market.

The wagons rumbled on.

Contrary to Neil’s fears, although a massive bright red bird, Allison didn’t draw attention. People barely spared her a glance. As long as she rode on his shoulder, people barely spared him a glance. The trader he’d spoken with to gain passage on his wagons had been more entranced by the bird than Neil, but it had been in a dazed, confused manner, and he’d thereafter agreed before even seeing if Neil could pay.

Magical gift to control people’s perceptions or not, Allison made Neil’s travels a living hell. Whether about the people around them, their clothes or their hair or their pets or their wares, she wouldn’t stop _talking._ At first he’d tried to appease her - she was a magical creature, after all - but eventually, for his own sake, he’d stopped. She rambled less once he stopped giving her a reaction, but the errant comments grated all the more for the blessed silence in between.

After four days and one town over, he couldn’t take it.

“Am I the only one who hears you?” He asked.

“You’re the only one paying attention,” she replied. “Because you’re obsessive and can’t relax.”

They were in the midst of a pit stop at the fur trader’s favorite tavern. Allison stuck to her place on his right shoulder, her tail cascading down his back and her head well above his, while he kept his shoulder bag strung on his left. He’d found a cozy, shadowed table in the back to sit and wait out the trader’s reunion with his good friend, the local innkeeper.

“Maybe because you’re obnoxious and won’t shut up,” he muttered, unimpressed with her and with their situation. 

“Sure,” she said, and laughed.

Well. Clicked. Chirped. It wasn’t a great laugh. It’d taken him a while to realize it was a laugh.

The fur trader and his friend were joined by four others. One of the newcomers gestured for the barkeep to bring them a round, presumably on his coin. The barkeep gave him a big smile. 

In the back, Neil picked at a hangnail and wished he could’ve stayed on the wagons without raising eyebrows. 

He didn’t like taverns. He didn’t like inns. He didn’t like most places people congregated, as he didn’t much like people. The Walker had said they’d be safe within her town -- he hadn’t believed her even though it turned out true, but now it didn’t matter. They weren’t in her town. His dyed hair, drab clothes and carefully make-upped face _generally_ helped hide him, but _generally_ hadn’t helped him much in the last year, and places where people congregated were too noisy and busy for him to feel secure in his own checks for his hunters.

The door to the tavern opened, and he hunched lower.

“ _Relax_ , pipsqueak. Do you really think you’re that important?” She shifted her weight, her talons catching on his jacket and pricking his skin. His shoulder had long ached from her weight, but she refused to fly herself around when he made a perfectly fine escort. “Please. Even if you were, no one can touch you while I’m here. You should be grateful. I’m _good_ at what I do.”

What she did, he thought, was all talk.

Again, he kept his mouth closed. He also started counting to ten with full knowledge that he wouldn’t make it. 

The bird was helpful. Her directions weren’t terribly specific, but she didn’t hesitate to share them. She complained, but mostly about other people. She fed herself. She groomed herself. As far as birds went, she seemed self-sufficient. If Neil could accept the witch wasn’t sending him on a fool’s quest (there was _no way_ he had a soulmate), Allison made the best feathered companion a person could ask for. 

Except he hadn’t asked for her, and even if people _didn’t_ seem to notice her, he hated having another pair of eyes watching his every move. Her redeeming factors were limited to being a bird and her disregard for him; everything else set his teeth on edge.

“This is what I meant,” she said, voice cross. “You should thank me. I had a feeling it would work out sooner than later, and I was right.” 

He asked, tired and frustrated, “What?”

“ _Thank you._ That’s what I’d like to hear.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She sniffed. “You didn’t mean that at all. Brat.”

Not understanding what she wanted, he kept his head down and mouth shut.

Just as he reached a mental _eight_ and she craned her neck around to peer far too closely at his eyes with what he’d swear was a bird’s smirk on her beak, voices by the bar rose, a stool clattered to the floor, and the distinctive _thwack!_ of a fist hitting a face resounded across the tavern.

Neil, along with half the tavern, looked to the source.

“Uh-oh. His face is already such a mess; he really can’t afford a broken nose,” Allison commented, her voice unconcerned.

The fur trader had his friend by the arm. The innkeeper, red-faced and halfway to the floor, spat vulgarities through a split lip. Opposite him, of the four newcomers, a tall black-haired fellow held a shorter blond by the shoulder, though the blond struggled not at all. Neil had the immediate thought the black-haired fellow need not bother with a hand, as the blond looked ready, willing and able to do as he pleased.

The two others - the one that had bought the group a round of drinks and a dispassionate, carbon copy of the blond that threw the punch - backed up, clearly looking to leave.

The innkeeper stopped cursing long enough to tell them they were _not_ and _never would be_ welcome at his inn again. He seemed to take particular umbrage with the one holding back the blond, pointing an accusing finger over the short man’s shoulder.

“I don’t serve yellow-bellied traitors! If you’d a speck of honor left, you’d put that sword to use on yourself and save us the trouble.”

Neil tore his eyes from the blond and took a closer look at the man the innkeeper hated so. 

He caught the black number tattooed on a high cheekbone, and felt his blood freeze.

“Whoa,” the bird clicked, her feathers again ruffled, “calm down, brat. He’s not that bad.”

The blond shrugged off the grip on his shoulder. The inn keeper took a step back into his friend, his anger cut with uncertainty.

Neil didn’t need to see the rest. If any asked, he’d ate something wrong and felt ill enough to return to the wagons early. Most had rented rooms at the local inn, but that was easily explained by a lack of coin.

The barkeep scrambled to separate the two before more blood was spilt on his wooden floors.

Seat clattering from how fast he stood, Neil ducked his head and made for the exit. He couldn’t dwell on if the tattooed man had seen him; he had no idea what Sir Kevin Day was doing in a backwoods town, and he didn’t want to know. He used to devour any news on the man, but after he’d disgraced the crown and left King Knox’s service, news became scarce, and asking only drew attention. Neil could not draw attention.

“Hey, brat,” the bird whistled, her beak grazing his ear, “calm the fuck down. You really don’t want to miss this.”

He really did. He also really, really wanted to twist the bird’s shitty neck; the ice in his veins broke due to a pounding heart, restless adrenaline flooding his system. 

Had he been seen? Would he be remembered? He’d be recognized, and then he’d be finished.

He needed to get out. He needed to run.

He pushed his way out of the tavern and into the night’s darkness, breath short and skin clammy, and didn’t look back. 

The bird nipped his ear and pulled his hair. “Go back in, stupid!”

“Fuck off,” he snapped, hand raising to swat her away. “Leave me _alone_.”

Squawking with indignation, she took flight from his shoulder. He didn’t look up to watch where she went -- he picked a less populated direction, and started running.

He didn’t know how far he went, except that his legs wobbled and his feet dragged and his lungs burned by the end of it. He stopped by a gnarled tree, leaning hard against its trunk to regain his breath. He’d have to make it back to the wagons, but he had all night. It wasn’t as if he could sleep in this town with Sir Kevin Day not a league away.

The bird found him like that, swooping down from the skies to alight on a branch above him.

For a blessed moment, they regarded each other in silence. Eventually, she bent her head to preen a wing, and he caught his breath. 

He reminded himself of the witch’s promise to make him all but invisible. Once he found his soulmate, it wouldn’t matter if Sir Kevin Day was in the room with him or not. All of his problems would go away. 

He needed that. He needed a fix. His mother would agree after his performance in the last year: it was the best he could do.

Just as he stretched his aching calves for the return run, she spoke.

“Do you even know yourself, Neil Josten? You should have stayed.”

“I didn’t realize a witch’s familiar would be so into watching humans squabble.”

“Idiot,” the bird said, “that was your soulmate.”

He froze, his hands stretched to his feet.

“Yeah,” she huffed, “ _you’re welcome_.”

\-----

The town boasted one inn, and given the scene in the bar, Neil felt safe assuming the four wouldn’t be there. They weren’t in the tavern either, but then, no one besides the barkeep and a drunkenly snoozing elderly woman was. Neil combed the empty streets with mud-streaked boots and trousers, Allison flying idle circles above him.

Once he’d checked every alley and behind every squat house, she swooped down and admitted his targets were back in the way he’d came. Specifically, they were camped out in a barn he’d passed by earlier. 

“Take your sweet time. That’s fine.”

That time, she ignored him.

He walked to the barn, figuring the late hour meant the four wouldn’t be going anywhere, and his legs ached besides. On rounding the bend in the road to the barn, he realized he didn’t have a plan on how to confront his soulmate. Allison had told him it was one of the four; as his life tended toward worst case scenarios, he was sure it would be Kevin; if Kevin recognized him, it wouldn’t matter if he received Walker’s magical disguise, because he would never make it back to her home. 

Still, his mother hadn’t raised a quitter. So he’d shoved the details of his soulmate to the back of his brain and set himself to the clear-cut task of finding them.

Well. He’d found them. Now he was fifty steps away from an introduction to a request he didn’t know how he’d fill. 

Allison swept forward and dropped herself onto the barn’s roof, a speck of deep red atop faded brown. Neil crept up from the broadside. Allison hooted.

It was not a sound he’d heard her make before. It sounded ridiculous - glancing up to see what she could possibly want treated him to the sight of three dark-clothed figures approaching from the roadside, their shoulders broad and hands glinting with knives. 

He ducked behind a stack of firewood. The figures went for the door, quiet as thieves.

The knives implied they were approaching for more than prized horse, which a barn so run-down wouldn’t possess in the first place. 

No. They wanted blood. And if the four were asleep, if the watch Kevin would’ve set up wasn’t watching in this exact moment, they were dead. Walker had asked for his soulmate’s thread _because_ it was alive and well. If Kevin died, would it even count? Neil felt willing to do a lot of things, but cutting the pinky off a corpse of his once-favorite knight made even him balk.

The barn doors creaked as the figures cracked one open. Grabbing a larger piece of firewood, Neil stepped around the pile and, without thinking twice, rushed the trio.

The first went down with a satisfying crack of wood to the back of her skull. Her friends spun with a shout of alarm; Neil dove for her knife; and the second fell quick as the first, the solid strike of a metal pipe to the side sending him gasping to the ground. 

It wasn’t Kevin, as Neil expected, but one of the short blonds. Dark eyes briefly met Neil’s - a rush of adrenaline swept through Neil’s veins, his whole body set afire - and then Neil sunk his new blade into the final thief’s neck, and down she went. 

Realizing abruptly what position he’d put himself in, Neil backed up. 

The blond stepped over one body, pressed his boot to the small of the still-gasping man’s back, and leveled his pipe at Neil.

“Drop the weapon.”

“You first.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“That’s fine. Is there a reason someone would want you dead?”

The blond’s eyebrow twitched up. “Plenty. Now drop it, or you’ll follow their lead.”

The man beneath his foot snarled and heaved himself up, knocking off the boot on his back. 

The blond gave him a kick to the head, and again, he fell. Groaning.

Behind them, Kevin stood in night clothes with his sword in hand; the two others watched from their sleeping mats, clearly hardly awake. 

Neil licked his lips, weighed his odds, and considered running.

The knife in his hand felt like a lifeline, an extension, a potential salvation. As long as he had a blade, who could touch him? 

(That was not true. He was not, in fact, the Butcher.)

“Who are you?” Kevin asked, and Neil’s breath caught in his throat. “Why did you help us?”

“You’re scared,” the blond said, voice too light to be caring, “but you’re going to drop that weapon.”

Their eyes met, and again, Neil’s adrenaline spiked.

It had been a long day. It had been a long year. He was, all at once, _tired_ : he wanted to stop. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to do much of anything.

He held his hands up, his grip on the knife loose. He did not drop the weapon.

He said, “My name is Neil Josten. I’ve been searching for my fate’s red thread. It’s attached to your pinky finger. I need it.”

\-----

In hindsight, it was not the best introduction.

Tall, not-Kevin laughed at him until the sleepy blond elbowed him in the ribs. Kevin did one worse: he said, “I told you only vagabonds would look to sleep here,” and the blond not a foot from Neil scoffed but conceded.

The second blond turned out to be a wanderer named Andrew. His twin was Aaron, his cousin was Nicky, and together, they were Kevin’s guard. They were headed for Troy, the King’s capital. They had been traveling for weeks. Neil learned these things while he stood by a wooden pillar as directed, watching next to Nicky and Kevin as Andrew interrogated, intimidated and then chased off their would-be murderer. 

Neil was deemed neither a threat nor worthy of respect. He fought the second point as long as he could, but gave up after he had to admit he needed fate’s red thread to fulfill a witch’s quest.

“A witch’s quest?” Kevin blankly repeated. 

“Who takes a witch’s quest?” Nicky asked.

“An idiot.” Aaron said.

“What could a witch give that benefits you?” Andrew asked, not even pausing in his interrogation.

“Does it matter?” Neil shot back, feeling miffed. “You’re sleeping in a barn. You’re traveling with a dishonored, exiled knight.”

“How do you know that?” Nicky asked, jumping.

“I still like my fingers,” Kevin snapped. “How _do_ you know me?”

Neil bit the inside of his cheek, took a breath, and spun a tale. It featured him as an orphan from a village Kevin had passed through; an orphan with dreams of being a knight as great as Kevin, marked on the cheek as he was by an old seer as the second greatest warrior in the land (at that, Kevin’s hand drifted to the bandage that covered the mark - a small gesture Neil would remember). Only to learn his hero had been driven out by the king; the firm belief that the king had to be in the wrong (a fact Neil neither knew nor cared to know); and, finally, going to a witch in search of a cure for his illness, only to learn his fate was tied to Kevin’s-- and, moreover, he needed proof of it.

After, Kevin narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down. Neil held his breath, just waiting for Kevin to recognize him.

Rather than drag his identity into the spotlight, however he said, “You look fine to me.”

“It isn’t that easy of an illness. If it was, do you think I’d go to a witch?”

“We could use help,” Aaron pointed out. “You know your way with a knife. Do you know your way with a sword?”

“Wait.” Neil glanced between them. “Help?”

By then, the murderer had been run off. Andrew stalked back without a speck of blood on his hands or coat. Neil’s eyes jumped to him nonetheless, drawn by the silence that fell over Kevin, Nicky and Aaron as Andrew stepped into their circle. For a stout, nameless man, he had presence. 

Eyeing him, Andrew held the silence for three beats. Every second of it raised Neil’s heart rate.

“Take a guess,” he finally said, his voice smooth and unconcerned.

“You’re going to Troy. With Sir Kevin Day. It must be something with the royal family.” 

Kevin tried to catch Andrew’s eye. Andrew kept his, steady and sure, on Neil’s.

“That’s right.”

“Andrew--”

“We’re going to open King Knox’s eyes to a conspiracy in his own court. Can you believe that?”

 _I’ll believe whatever you have to say if it ends this sooner,_ Neil thought. 

“An ex-Knight with a band of rogues? Seems like you’ll want to start a conspiracy.” Kevin opened his mouth. Neil, unsure of how long he had before Andrew decided to run him off too, kept speaking. “But I can’t believe Sir Day would commit treason. Not in the past, and not now.”

“You think we’d believe that?” Aaron muttered. “You’d trust a witch.”

“You’d tell people you trust a witch!”

“You’re looking to cut off _my_ finger.”

The comments continued. Nicky talked himself into and out of wanting Neil around. Aaron and Kevin remained staunchly opposed, though for very different reasons (Kevin looked a bit abashed to turn away such a loyal fan). Andrew said nothing.

Neil kept his expression clear of anything but the simplest of impossible emotions: conviction Kevin that would do the right thing, and the desperation of a young man aware of his own mortality.

It was a ridiculous gamble. He had no intention of traveling all the way to the Kingdom’s capital; Kevin may not recognize him, but the Moriyama family certainly would. If Kevin would be honorable and strike a deal, great. If he wouldn’t, Neil only needed a moment to get what he’d come for. It wasn’t honorable of him, but he was no knight, and he never would be. He’d wanted to be, once upon a time, but that really was an imagined orphan’s impossible dream.

Kevin would be fine without a pinky. A modified gauntlet would take care of any balance issues. He was too good of a knight to let a missing finger ruin him.

“Alright.”

Neil blinked. Shock hit him, and rippled out through the small crowd.

“You’re good with a knife. We’ll find use for you.” Decision made Andrew looked at his companions and then Neil. His certainty relieved Neil’s tension, the clasp of fear around his heart at last easing. “Consider yourself akin to hired help. Do your job, and you’ll get your payment.”

“Which is my _finger?_ ”

“You won’t miss the tip. If his witch is any good, that’s all they’d need.”

“Before I agree,” Neil hedged in, acutely aware of Kevin fuming, “what’s my job?”

“We need to get into the castle. Specifically, we need audience with the King. Unfortunately, as those three visitors proved, by now the Moriyama family knows we’re coming. But, they don’t know you.” 

The words felt like a wash of cold down his back. Neil struggled not to let it show on his face.

Andrew seemed to notice anyway, his eyes narrowing minutely. He didn’t question it, however, and the others didn’t seem to notice. 

He waited for Neil to extrapolate.

Feeling foolish and like a dead man walking, Neil did.

“You want me to get you four into the castle.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure your evidence will convince the King?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Have faith in your hero.”

Great. Andrew was a sarcastic jokester. 

This was a mistake. He might as well have handed himself over to his father’s men.

But the circumstances of Kevin’s exile had been mysterious, and he didn’t need to stick around for the King. Technically, he didn’t even need to make it to the castle. The Walker couldn’t possibly care how he got the thread -- she was a _witch._

He had options. He had exits. At worst, he disappeared in death after helping ruin his father’s friends; at best, he disappeared by magic. In both cases, his problems ended for good.

“I accept.” 

Kevin and Aaron kept their dissent to themselves, though their faces made their feelings clear. Nicky gave him a tentative smile that he did not return.

Andrew nodded once, his gaze wandering away from Neil’s as he turned back to their would-be killers’ bodies. 

“Good. Nicky will catch you up on the road. We move out now; this barn has seen too many visitors.”

 _That_ started up a complaining streak from Nicky and Aaron that told Neil just how nice their lives had been before they’d joined the motley crew. In contrary to that thought, Kevin snapped back without hesitation, and the three fell into an easy but displeased banter that spoke to long familiarity. All four packed their bags with efficiency, though Neil privately thought they carried far too much (especially Kevin with his rolled chainmail, shield and longsword). 

Neil was put in the middle of the pack, next a chatty but informative Nicky. They had a missive to deliver to the King that proved the Moriyama’s treason. Their next stop was at a port, where they’d hop aboard a ship sailed by an old friend (Nicky’s word, not anyone else’s). 

As they walked through field and forest, their footsteps loud and packs jangling, Neil felt Andrew’s eyes on him like a dying man felt a vulture’s. 

(Speaking of vultures: Allison was nowhere to be found. Neil scanned the skies for her, but eventually they hit the treeline and he had no _I’m looking at the stars_ for an excuse.) 

The mission was a fool’s errand. They had to be desperate to take on a stranger like him. They had to be desperate to willing confront the _Moriyamas._ Moreover, they had to be idiots.

There was a cruel irony in all of this, he thought. It was the biggest proponent of fate being true.

\-----

Well into the next day’s evening, they reached their friend’s ship, were ushered aboard to a cramped room with six planks masquerading as beds, and fell dead asleep.

Neil hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep with four relatively unknown bodies in the room. As over twenty-four hours without sleep proved to him, he was wrong. He woke briefly to the sounds of the ship heaving from the port, caught the sliver of hazel that was Andrew’s eyes across the way, and - though foggy thoughts insisted he be worried about being watched - fell back asleep.

When he woke next, his dreams felt kind, warm and just out of reach. He also felt better rested than he had in-- years. Before his mother’s death, even. 

It was unsettling.

“Morning, sunshine. Oh, shit! Didn’t startle you, did I?”

Neil forcibly relaxed as he looked up and over to Nicky. The man blinked slow and unconcerned at him, and then yawned.

“Should we check out what they serve for breakfast?”

“Most ferries require you bring your own,” Aaron said.

“What? No! I’m sick of dried jerky. I’ll start a protest.”

Andrew, Neil noticed, was already up and going through his people’s bags. Neil watched him pull jars of pickled fruit and a pack of jerky, which was already far more food than Neil’s single pack contained. Good thing he had the coin to buy a bite off a sailor.

If they didn’t sink first. The ship creaked oddly, a rise and fall that seemed to vibra--

Oh.

That wasn’t the ship. That was Kevin Day, snoring loud enough to rival a grain mill.

Neil stared at his oblivious soulmate for four long seconds, and then, feeling defiant, pulled the blanket snug over his head. 

If fate existed, it was a cruel bastard.

\-----

Surprising only to the first-time-passenger named Nicky Hemmick, the ship ride ranked top in _boring._

Kevin, true to his reputation of maintaining order in every little thing, demanded Neil show him his swordsmanship while they sailed. Kevin, true to the man Neil was discovering that ignored his limits in any situation, hadn’t accounted for sea-sickness. Rather, that he would become sea-sick. Specifically, he would become violently sea-sick, and spend the vast majority of the ride doubled over a railing with Nicky rubbing his back and Aaron encouraging the ludicrous idea that drinking would help.

Neil took one look at the scene and knew it wasn’t for him. 

_Sailing_ wasn’t for him. Rather like taverns and pubs, boats contained too many people and too few places to hide. He walked the bow of the ship again and again just to ease his nerves. With the witch’s damn bird missing, Kevin Day one good look away from recognizing him and the Moriyamas looming in the near future, Neil blamed not fate but his own irresponsibility. If he took Kevin’s finger, would it even count? Did he really want to take the finger, or had he just told himself that to get aboard this suicide mission? It felt too pathetic of a decision for him to make, subconscious or not.

His restlessness kept him up late at night, ever wandering the ship. That was his excuse and his truth.

“I’ve no reason to hide anything. Paranoid much?”

Andrew’s look flattened further. That was impressive - Neil hadn’t thought it possible.

The two regarded each other at the stern of the ship, the moon a sliver and the stars playing coy behind wispy clouds. The dark of a sleeping ship in a silent night would have swallowed their figures entirely if not for the dim glow of Andrew’s tobacco stuffed pipe.

It wasn’t an ornate pipe. It didn’t carry any obvious meaning. It smelled nice, like woodsmoke and what Neil imagined to be home. In truth, it smelled like what his mother had been: a spark that burned bright no matter how the wind whipped. 

It was a smoke pipe.

It really didn’t matter.

“You don’t add up,” Andrew informed him. “A man with just the skillset we need shows up, and he’s willing to risk death or exile for his childhood star, Kevin Day. How convenient.”

“You can trust me to get the job done.”

“Where did you come from?”

“The west. I’m not being altruistic, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Like I said, I need Sir Day’s--”

“Only the desperate turn to witchcraft.”

“Only the desperate risk treason for an ideal.”

“Revenge is hardly an ideal.”

“Sir Day thinks he can set the Kingdom right. Or are you that blind to your own comrades? There’s not caring, and then there’s being stupid.”

“Watch yourself, newcomer.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you.”

Andrew’s eyebrow twitched. 

Smoke streamed from the corner of his mouth - Neil caught a whiff, and something in him warmed. 

It felt a little dangerous, a sentiment that prickled his skin and turned his head away and down, his fingers tightening on the railing.

“Kevin lost half his body weight in liquor over this railing,” Andrew said after a long, long, and - if Neil let himself think about it, which he did for a second before shutting it down - companionable silence. 

Kevin wasn’t what Neil had expected. Once upon a time, they had been squires training for the same elusive knighthood -- then Neil had left, and Kevin had made it, and ruined it, and now they were both here, disgraced and dishonored. Now that they were here, Neil couldn’t imagine a life where he _hadn’t_ run once again into Kevin Day. But that was the trick of soulmates, wasn’t it?

Soulmate or not, Kevin wasn’t the shining knight Neil had thought he’d become. 

“Bet he made the sailors sick,” Neil returned.

Andrew hummed deep in his throat, his eyes boring holes into the side of Neil’s head.

Neil didn’t look back at him - he didn’t want to, something in him nervous in a manner that wasn’t entirely familiar. Andrew smoked and Neil found himself lacking words, not caring he was lacking words, realizing he didn’t care, and feeling disquieted over why he didn’t care, and, finally, demanding with absolute sarcasm, “Do you want a demonstration of my skill since your brave knight can’t stand straight to save his life?”

“No,” Andrew said, and Neil knew without doubt that this was a dismissal for both their sake’s, “you showed your hand the night at the barn. I don’t need to know your skill when I know you’ll kill for him.”

That should have set off warning bells.

But Andrew said it so matter-of-fact, so easily, no bells rang.

Nerves frayed at the lack of frayed nerves (a catch-22 Neil was not stranger to), Neil took the lifeline that was Andrew’s dismissal and shoved off from the railing. Hand waving, he put on a sharp, mean smile, all teeth, all _who he had been_ and no Neil Josten.

Showing another side wasn’t something he would normally do, but he felt it necessary right then and there. It felt like they had conversations like this before. It felt like he knew Andrew from years past, which was an impossibility and a fearful thing besides.

“That’s a lot of trust in someone you don’t know. Maybe killing’s my job.”

“You’re not soft in the heart,” Andrew drawled, “only in the head.”

“I’d have to be to join this cause.”

“Agreed.”

“Good,” Neil bit out, if only not to have the last word.

At that and at last, Andrew turned from him. He didn’t wave Neil away or hunker down or anything else to tell Neil that the conversation mattered. 

Regardless, Neil climbed into his hammock and thought of nothing but what they had said, spoken and otherwise.

Much to Neil’s distaste and bemusement, he fell into a routine. The sea voyage to the Kingdom’s capital was only five days, but as someone who purposefully lacked routine on the hour-by-hour, never mind the day-by-day (at least in terms of activities - he had his routine maintenance and surveillance checks, of which also took a drastic shortening as the eighteen sailors and six other passengers didn’t change from day one to day five), it unnerved him. That it took him until they reached port to realize what he had was a _routine_ bothered him, perhaps, the most.

Here it was:

He’d wake up. He’d eat. He’d find a chore the sailors didn’t mind sharing in order to appear useful and avoid conversation with his group. He’d eat. He’d be found by one of the group, typically Kevin or Nicky, and interrogated (useful information about their mission from Kevin, useless information about the cousins’ worrying relationships from Nicky). He would excuse himself and pretend to sleep. He’d eat. He’d wander until he ran into Andrew, and they would spend the evening in a mix of silence, barbed banter about what they weren’t telling each other, or, if Kevin had anything pertinent to say about the mission, Neil one-sidedly discussing what needed to be done, as Andrew turned out to have no interest in strategy beyond knowing his group members’ strengths.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head. You’re a sneak by blood. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“You must be a riot at parties,” Neil deadpanned.

“Do you want a puff, or not?”

Neil did not want a puff of the pipe. He made to tell Andrew that what he liked was the smell, and caught himself with the words on the tip of his tongue.

Andrew looked at him as if he understood anyway, and then looked away. As if he understood Neil wouldn’t have taken prying very well right then, either. Or, as Neil reminded himself, as if he _didn’t care._

The first night had put an itch under his skin. By the fifth, he felt downright comfortable.

That unnerved him. Especially as Andrew made no secret about wanting to figure Neil out.

When the ship at last ran to port, the captain herself saw them off. Bee was her perferred name: an old, old friend, apparently, though she gave Neil the creeps.

Neil saw Andrew pass her something in a worn leather pouch, and prodded at his feelings on it. There should have been alarm bells. There were not.

Something was off about him, Neil noted. When his brain refused to panic about it, he reminded himself every step away from the ship to keep alert, keep his head down, and finish the job.

\-----

“Are you nervous, or stupid?”

“Neither.”

“Extra stupid, then.”

Neil rolled his eyes.

Andrew’s eyebrows rose as if daring him to turn around now that the castle was not a far off objective, but rather, looming right behind them. The skepticism was fair - Neil himself wondered what he was doing fulfilling his promise instead of running. Something had stilled his hand from the blade on two day’s travel to the castle; something chained him to this group and their cause, though Kevin hadn’t recognized him and he had slept and ate and generally felt at his best during the entire trip. 

It had only been two days, but he understood the group’s dynamics, and found them easy enough to slip into. Aaron wished to be somewhere else, tied down by a blood oath to his brother that neither twin discussed. Nicky wished everyone got along, and put heavy hope on the end of Kevin’s mission being the journey to bind them. Kevin wished for his King to rule without impediment. Andrew wished…

Neil wasn’t entirely sure what Andrew wished for. That should have been startling; it wasn’t both because Andrew acted with a apathy toward anything unthreatening or unrelated to Kevin’s wish, and because by the end of the day, Neil would disappear.

 _Finally._ His mother could rest easy knowing she hadn’t died in vain.

Scowl firm on his face, Kevin shoved the missive Neil had to deliver to King Knox into his chest. It was an innocent thing, thick rolled parchment sealed with cheap braided rope. It looked like exactly what a small time lord might smuggle out for his mistress: so suspiciously inconspicuous, no one wanted to bother with it. 

It probably wouldn’t matter. As it turned out, having a knight that grew up in the royal castle was as handy as it was dangerous.

“Since it’s so late, you’ll most likely find the good King in his bedroom. Enter through the kitchens. There’s a door to in the pantry activated by the third stone up--”

“I know. Secret passage.”

Kevin’s scowl intensified.

“We only have one shot. It’s all on you. Don’t forget that.”

“Yeesh,” Nicky muttered from the corner of his mouth, “no pressure.”

Ignoring him, Neil gave Kevin a nod and turned to the castle’s servant entrance. As he turned, he avoided the twins’ eyes. He had to keep focused. This would be it.

And oh,. What timing. For the first time in too long, he felt like part of the world around him. 

That was how he knew it was a mistake.

That, and how embarrassingly easy it was to break into the kitchens. 

The singular servant in attendance glanced at him, took in his ragged clothes and suspiciously inconspicuous letter, huffed a laugh, and returned to her card game. He made a show of going into the corridor with a suitably abashed look before doubling back for the pantry - a charade he could have discarded, as she was humming a tune to herself and not paying him the slightest attention. 

The third stone on the third row pressed in and slid up as Kevin directed. The crawl space was tight, intended perhaps for princes in night shirts or squires late to a practice looking to make time. A throw-away comment Kevin made about Neil and the twins’ stunted growth being an asset all at once made sense, though it softened none of its rudeness.

In any case, the tunnel was poorly lit and highly claustrophobic. Neil was happy to push past dust (not as much as an unused, poorly lit, cramped tunnel _should_ have) and into a bare, boring, four-plus-bed room. Empty though he was, he listened at the door for a good minute before determining the hallway safe to venture into.

Neil had been in the royal castle all of once when his father had entered him into a tournament against other potential squires. He remembered the thrill of the ring well, though he remembered his father ordering him to throw the match against Riko Moriyama best. His mother had packed their bags and stolen him away in the night before that final championship match. It was, probably, for the best, though the question of if he could have beaten Riko Moriyama or the other semi-finalist, Kevin Day, in a duel plagued his younger days for years.

Oh, well. That was the past.

_Had the past contained so many raven crested banners?_

His memories were full of deep red and gold sunbursts, but that had been a tournament. His gut told him the dark of the halls was not right, that the Moriyama’s interference ran as deep as Kevin claimed. Knowing the Moriyama’s power, it wasn’t that Neil was surprised; more, he didn’t consider it his business.

( _You made it your business when you boarded this ship,_ Kevin had reminded him.

 _First honest work I’ve had in ages,_ Neil had replied, _and it’s all for your pinky._

His soulmate had colored at that. It was funny to watch.)

\-- But try as the castle might to throw him into the past, he had a king to find and an exit to make. According to Kevin, the royal chambers were three corners away from the knights’ wing. Neil kept close to the wall and his feet light.

The castle stopped being so empty by the third turn. He passed two servants lugging linens: one squinted at him over a soft blue comforter, but the other continued yammering on about the hunting dogs’ recent rash of fleas and on they trotted. It would have made more sense if he’d climbed through a window, he thought. All of these people could identify him.

That was when he turned the third corner, and nearly ran right into Sir Riko Moriyama.

Fortunately, a letter was not as cumbersome as linens, and Neil scrambled back before either Riko or his two comrades saw him. He stood with his back to Neil, his red-lined black jacket untouched, terribly expensive and rigid with the tension of its wearer. 

“The King wants every ship searched.”

A pause. Neil could tell without seeing that Riko’s two companions either glanced at each other or privately weighed the price of their necks against their principles.

One spoke slow but certain. The other was not as cautious.

“Respectfully, sire, the merchants have already protested the cut to their crew numbers.”

“It’s true. Trade’s already seeing an impact. Everyone knows with the slightest resemblance to--”

Another pause, sharper than the last. 

It really hadn’t been necessary to say. Even dropped in the middle of the conversation, Neil immediately imagined Kevin, his tattoo covered but height, high cheekbones and wide brow recognizable all the same. The problem must have been long-standing for the two to bring up concerns at all. 

“We are looking for a traitor.” Riko’s voice was pure black silk. “Would you have the King cut corners?”

Both spoke at once, deferential and hasty and undoubtedly fearing for their careers’ future. “No, sire.”

“That is what you’re implying he do.”

“That was not my intention, sire.”

“Then you have no protests.”

“No, sire.”

A pause, more dangerous than the last two combined.

Neil unconsciously held his breath. 

“Good.” Boots scuffed on the stone floor. “It’s about time for the patrol rotation, isn’t it?”

That was not a voice that asked. The two hastened to comply.

Neil’s held breath paid off, as the two walked opposite his direction. He waited for what felt like an eternity, but eventually Riko followed, his footsteps slow and measured.

Slipping around the last corner to find the royal quarters’ ornate doors felt surreal. There were no guards in sight, and - when Neil tried the handle - no lock.

But then the door swung open, and Neil realized why. It wasn’t the misstep of a rotation: it was that the king _wasn’t there._

Neil stared into empty chamber, letter clutched in his hand, and breathed out. 

“Fuck.”

Voices drifted in from behind him, one cheery and one dour. Neil thought of back-tracking, but didn’t fancy his odds with Riko so close and so active -- and so he dove into the large, red and gold bedecked room, scrambled for the first wardrobe large enough to hold him, pushed past thick velvet robes, and pulled the door shut just as the pair of voices reached the bedroom.

“Funny. Was this always open?”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Well-- oh, come on, Jean, it’s fine. No assassin would break into the castle but give themselves away with an open door.”

“In my experience, your Majesty, those details are the only reason an assassin doesn’t succeed.”

The King and his personal guard.

Of course.

This was about to be very awkward. Neil had little leg to stand on being an unknown intruder with just a letter; now he was an unknown intruder with just a letter while hiding in a wardrobe. It would, perhaps, be best to wait until the two left to creep out and find them again in the hall.

The two chatted quietly, Jean the Guard obviously still a mite paranoid while King Knox tried to soothe his nerves and went about his room like normal.

It would definitely be best to wait. A personal guard might put a sword through his stomach for existing, and rightly so. 

_At least it isn’t Riko,_ Neil thought, and then blinked, as light poured in and the King’s hand paused an inch from his face.

“Hello?”

A word short and confused, King Knox’s eyes round as dinner plates.

Over his shoulder, Jean the Guard spun and drew his sword.

“Wait,” Neil started, hands up.

“Your Majesty, get back--”

“I have a letter for you!”

“For me?”

Neil nodded, his eyes jumping between the guard’s sword and the King’s face.

“From whom?” He asked, and leaned back. “Ah. You could step out of my wardrobe, if you like. I have to admit, I prefer speaking on equal ground..”

It was a miracle, Neil thought, that King Knox had not already died.

“It’s from,” Neil started, stopped, and restarted, “a concerned citizen.”

“Your Majesty--”

The King took the missive and backed up to let Neil step out. Neil did, his gaze entirely for the guard, whose sword tip did not waver an inch from Neil’s direction. Jean must have thought it a miracle the King was still alive, too. Then again, the Moriyamas _would_ want a trusting fool of a King in charge. He had to be easier to manipulate.

“Jean, it’s alright,” the King murmured, though his tone was distracted as he unraveled the letter and set to reading it. “I’m sure-- er, what’s your name, again?”

“It’s Josten.” Neil wasn’t sure what was in the missive, but he hoped it was good. “Your Majesty.”

The King nodded absently. The guard did not put down his sword. 

Outside the door, boots pounded down the hall. Adrenaline spiked through Neil, his teeth set on edge. As he stepped away from the door, Jean snapped at him to stay put. The room’s candles flickered and twisted -- the people, three by Neil’s count, drew closer. 

“Who did you say wrote this?” The King asked, apparently unconcerned with what might whip up a frenzy outside his door. 

Neil opened his mouth to respond. The King’s door slamming open interrupted him.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Moriyama declared, “there’s a reported intruder.”

“Yes,” the King replied, “and there he is.”

Riko and his three fellows’ gaze snapped to him. Neil watched the recognition hit Riko -- in waves, it seemed, as the once squire blinked, tilted his head, blinked again, and then, with an emotion Neil wouldn’t name as anything less than accusation, said, “Wesninski.”

“Josten,” Neil corrected by instinct.

“Wesninski?” The King asked, his gaze sharper than his disposition. The letter was dropped to a low table, evidently forgotten.

“The younger,” Riko clarified for him. Composure returned to him as a loyal dog to a good master: quickly, and with good humor.

Neil clamped down on his tongue. Hard.

Riko motioned for him to be arrested. Neither the King nor Jean stopped him.

He knew then that he needed to run.

There was nowhere to go. He’d known this would be the end. He’d delivered the letter. He did not run.

He was seized. 

Neil Josten was finished.

\-----

They did not throw him in a pit. They threw him in a tower.

It wasn’t glamorous - it was, in fact, a circular stone room with a low ceiling, a tiny barred window, and nothing else -, and it wasn’t, by Riko’s claim, meant for long. They would have his trial after his father and Riko’s elder brother returned from business overseas. They were due soon enough, Riko said, but not so soon Neil wouldn’t grow to love his new place.

Neil’s response was a simple, blunt: “Is this meant to frighten me?”

(It did.)

Riko sneered and shut the heavy door in his face, its bolt sliding into place with a solid _thunk._

“Find who sent him here,” he told his comrades. Then he promised Neil, his smile indulgent and vicious: “Don’t worry. We’ll be back with questions before long.” 

They left.

Dawn came.

The window was positioned so as to allow a square of light travel from one end of the floor to the other. It gave him a slow, second-by-second play of the day: morning, afternoon, evening, dusk. Night.

Torches popped up along the castle’s walls, security undoubtedly doubled after his break-in.

By the end of the first day (one meal and one jug of water later), Neil once again wondered where the witch’s bird had gotten off to. She wouldn’t have been any help, he was sure, but at least then he would have had something other than himself to focus on.

Sliding down by the door, arms around his drawn up legs, Neil replayed the journey in his mind: from meeting Walker to the barn to the boat. From Kevin to Nicky to Aaron, back to Kevin - he had changed much since Neil first met him, he felt -, and, finally, to Andrew.

The quiet nights at the boat’s bow. The smell of smoke. The ease, the security. Something like peace, contained in a single exchange.

The smoke.

Thick, and growing thicker.

…

That wasn’t from his memories.

The panicked shouting was what shook him from his reverie. It climbed up the tower’s spiral staircase, though the smoke blew in from the window. As Neil had a better view of the latter and the former quickly receded, he scrambled to check -- and found the guards missing from the walls, their torches extinguished. A red glow cast the grounds’ sparse trees and an old storehouse in sharp relief; as Neil watched, it grew, the wind that ruffled the forest beyond stoking out-of-sight flames. 

As with everything else within the castle, it didn’t feel real. Neil watched, transfixed, as fire licked its way across green.

He watched until the shouting returned and grew closer.

“Neil!”

That was-- not who he had expected.

He wasn’t sure who he expected - he didn’t think he’d expected anyone -, but it definitely wasn’t Andrew with keys working his cell door open, or Nicky looking overjoyed to see him. 

“Hurry it up,” Andrew demanded, the lock unbolting and the hinges screeching as he dragged the door open, “Aaron and Kevin are waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”

“It’s worse than a riot,” Nicky said as Neil, disbelieving, stepped out of the cell, “half the castle’s on fire.”

“I noticed,” Neil managed to say. Nicky shook his head and took for the stairs. Andrew stood, the bulky keys left in the cell door. Neil’s gaze fell to him-- and he felt he could breathe easier, even with the smoke wafting in from outside and the threat of dodging a blaze in their near future. 

Numbly, Neil asked, “Why did you come for me?”

Without hesitation, Andrew answered. “You held up your end of the deal. That makes you one of us.”

He had to have sought Neil out specifically. That was a lot of time and a lot of effort for someone he barely knew.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Andrew intoned, voice flat, “cut it out. You look pathetic.”

A huff of surprise - the good kind, one Neil wasn’t familiar with - made it past his lips. 

Andrew gave him a once-over. Neil saved him time by saying, “They didn’t touch me.”

(He didn’t mention his father. There was no need.)

Nodding once, Andrew moved by him, his fingers skimming the small of Neil’s back as he went. Lightning sparked up his spine, the aftershocks not dissimilar to the quiet surety of their nightly meetings on the boat’s bow. It spoke of relief. 

They were in the middle of a burning building, but he felt sure he could do anything. His father was a faraway threat. His quest was so close to completion.

“We need to leave,” Kevin barked the second Neil and Andrew hit the final stair. Seeing Kevin brought its own relief, a surge of calm that Neil wasn’t sure was his own. If they were soulmates, it made sense -- Kevin always seemed an anxious mess, but his core must have been one of unwavering surety. As the legend went with soulmates sharing emotions, Neil must have been leeching off of it. He was smudged with soot, his intense eyes ever more serious, his gloved hand tight around his sword. A shallow cut ran right below the two on his cheek, the bandage gone. Aaron stood beside him, similarly soot-smudged but without even the slightest hint of a wound.

“No shit,” Andrew replied, and took point. 

Right. Neil reminded himself to think of the present, too.

For instance: “How did the fire start?”

“I made my argument to the King,” Kevin said, terse, “he granted me audience after you delivered the letter.”

“Kevin made his argument,” Andrew added, “and so did Riko. Once he realized he was on the losing side, he started what you see.”

What he saw was the courtyard ablaze. The four bursted out of the castle proper on the heels of one very panicked guard, and ran into a wave of roiling black smoke.

Nicky stumbled with a coughing fit. Neil saw Aaron heave his cousin’s arm over his shoulder and forge on anyway, Andrew’s steps faltering too as he dealt with the change in air and glancing back to his blood relatives. 

The certainty in Neil’s heart cracked, but held fast.

“I need to see to the King,” Kevin yelled over the fire’s roar.

“It’s him or Riko,” Andrew sent back, “you won’t catch him if you hesitate now.”

Kevin’s mouth tightened at the edges. Neil felt as if he were right back on the fence of indecision. 

“ _Kevin_ ,” Andrew urged, an unusual tension in his voice.

“The King,” Kevin said.

Andrew put up no argument. He nodded, just as he had to Neil, and led their group to the courtyard’s gates.

Solid red broke through flickering flames - in the chaos, Neil nearly missed it. He would have if not for the familiarity of the feathered figure and the oddity of the air around her: though she dove from the skies and through the flames, the blaze parted before her and closed behind her. She landed on a low wooden fencepost looking untouched and unreal. She swept out a wing as if in invitation, her eyes on Neil’s.

As he couldn’t exactly cut Kevin’s pinky off in the middle of a firefight, Neil resolved to complain about her absence _later_ , and raced past her.

“Neil.” 

That was not Allison. The voice was whispered in his ear, private and intimate and too close for his comfort. The world around him dimmed, the sound and color muffled. He stumbled into Andrew and jolted back-- into Nicky, of whom also didn’t move.

Nothing around him moved. The fire crackled on repeat, distant and untouchable.

He looked back to Allison, and found a rainbow haired witch seated where she had perched. Walker’s legs dangled from the fencepost, Allison a stunning curve over her shoulder.

The world had stopped on this witch’s command.

The realization, the _understanding_ , set his heart to hammering. 

He snapped, scrambling for control and trying not to show it: “Little busy.”

She shook her head, her expression saying she understood but it simply couldn’t be. 

He understood then and there that she could end his life, that she could trap him in this non-world forever, and not care. Something about her was missing. Maybe magic hollowed her out. Maybe she was just like that.

She said, “It’s the time for you to decide.”

“Now?” Neil gestured to their surroundings: the burning rooftops, the fleeing servants. “Really?”

“Yes.”

A laugh bubbled up. He swallowed it with difficulty, the incredulity coding as exasperation in his voice.

“I haven’t Kevin’s finger.”

“Brat,” Allison sighed, for the first time speaking and looking more than a beautiful bird, “you need to learn to read yourself.”

“What?”

“It isn’t Kevin’s finger you’d need. It’s the shitty blond’s.”

The--?

It was then a strand of red caught his eye. From his pinky to another's, a thin gleam that looked so fragile, it couldn't possibly connect anyone.

And yet, it did. More than that: it went not to Kevin, but to--

“ _Andrew?_ ”

“Bingo,” Allison grumbled, and shifted her weight on Walker’s shoulder. It was a gesture familiar to Neil: she always did it when annoyed. “Renee’s got a nasty case of fond feelings for the monster. Won’t leave him alone. Keeps saying this is the final time she’ll meddle.”

“What matters,” Walker continued smoothly, no glance spared for Allison, “is whether you decide Nathaniel Wesninski disappears or stays.”

Neil stared at her.

_Neil!_

He heard, but didn’t see, Nicky calling for him. It pierced the veil, which was about when Neil realized he could see _nothing_ of the world, only hear it - the others, panicked, and the fire, roaring. Andrew’s voice followed Nicky’s, lower but louder, closer. 

For the life of him, Neil couldn’t understand a word. He wanted to turn for him, to keep running, but he couldn’t move his eyes from the witch’s.

Unlike Nicky’s, Walker’s words came through clear.

“This is your decision, Neil. You can’t keep running.”

He found himself saying without thought: “I know that.”

Her head cocked.

“Do you understand what I’m offering you?”

“I do,” he said, though he didn’t know how he did. He knew this would solve the very real problems being born the son of his father had brought him. He knew it meant sacrifice. He knew he had worked for this, that his mother would approve of accepting what he had sowed in making a deal with a witch.

“Then what will you do?”

Someone grabbed him by the arm, a warmth that melted through his jacket and spread through his veins. He was grounded; he would soon be free of this nightmare, and home. 

“I,” he started, and stopped, his breath gone.

Allison bowed her head. The witch, small and sad and sweet, smiled.


	2. EPILOGUE

The Kingdom’s capital marketplace bustled with travelers and locals, with fishermen and off-duty guards and merchants and vagrants and urchins and fathers and mothers and children and anyone in between. That was the usual crowd - the unusual were a dozen or more carpenters and blacksmiths, men and women of skilled trade brought in from afar to pitch their services to the King. The castle had to be rebuilt, and everyone capable of holding a hammer wanted to be the one to do it.

Andrew Minyard was no carpenter or blacksmith. He was no guard, no fisherman, no merchant, and certainly no parent. He hadn’t been a child for years. He wasn’t a local, though he thought it a stretch to call him a traveler.

He had his family. He had a ship he was waiting on; the captain, an old confidant, had a shipment to pick up before she’d set sail, as well as a few men’s woes to soothe before leaving. As he refused to take any other ship, he supposed he had to wait. His cousin had attempted to set him up with faster travel - when he’d failed to convince Andrew, Kevin had stepped in and offered private passage to wherever he’d like to go. As thanks for reuniting him with honor and a place at the King’s side, he said.

Andrew turned him down, too.

His brother knew him too well to try. Aaron was to be a knight. Another token of gratitude from the King, and enough for Andrew to feel any debt repaid.

The issue with being called a traveler was the same as with Kevin’s offer of private passage. It came with the assumption that he had somewhere to be. Even in the abstract, he couldn’t think of a thing he wanted.

There were, of course, things he needed. For instance: food that would last him for weeks, if not months. He trusted Bee not to run low on supplies, but he couldn’t trust whatever came after her generosity.

He also had quite the sweet tooth, and sailors didn’t oft account for that.

That was why he was in the marketplace’s bustle. That was why he stood in front of the stand with the caramel apples and candied berries, thinking through what quantity he wanted of each. It was just about the only decision he felt ready to make for that day.

Someone in the crowd jostled him as they passed. He turned to follow them with a glare, just in case they had any ideas, and caught sight of familiar rainbow-dyed hair and the edge of a knowing smile -- but then another passer-by ran right into him, bouncing back with a huff of surprise.

The second stranger was hardly taller than Andrew, his eyes blue as the uninterrupted sky, his hair red, thick and curly. He was attractive, Andrew allowed, in the way of fire: looking or touching too long would surely burn.

“Do I know you?”

The stranger blinked.

Andrew frowned, more to himself than the red-head. He had meant to tell the other off, not ask about any past. If they had met, he didn’t care to know. The very idea burned with something he had no name for, a distant familiarity that scalded.

“No,” the stranger said. It was then Andrew realized how long they’d stood, staring at each other.

How unusual.

How… different.

“Maybe in passing,” the stranger allowed. That was how it felt: that the other had planned this talk. As if this was no chance meeting. Andrew decided he didn’t like it. “I’m seeking passage on Captain Dobson’s ship. Do you know her?”

“I do. And who are you?”

“Neil Josten.” A pause. It felt weighty - Andrew didn’t interrupt it, as weighty pauses typically extended into truths strangers would otherwise not say, and he had the feeling he’d need whatever truth he could get from this man. “Just. Neil Josten. No one else.”

“Sure.”

Whatever that meant, Andrew didn’t know, and didn’t care. He turned his attention back to the stand, figuring the two of them would grow sick of each other’s faces soon enough aboard the confines of Bee’s ship.

Unfortunately, Neil Josten was having none of it.

“And you are?”

“Andrew.”

“You’re going to ruin your teeth if you eat too much of these,” Neil Josten said, one side of his mouth quirked up.

“Hmm,” Andrew responded, pretending for all of a second to ponder that, “I didn’t ask.”

“I recommend the cherries. They last the longest.”

Andrew kept silent. He watched from his periphery as Neil’s smile softened and, at last, he turned and took his exit. 

“What an odd coincidence,” he said aloud, once he was sure Neil was gone, “that this should happen just as I was about to relax.”

“What’s that?” The clerk woman replied, her expression affronted at his flat tone. “Are you going to buy anything, mister?”

He thought of correcting her, of clarifying that he had meant the comment for the insufferably meddling witch. If Neil Josten was Walker’s fault in any way, the sea voyage ahead was bound to be interesting. 

“A bag of the walnuts,” he said instead, deciding it to be too much of a hastle to clarify, “and another of the cherries.”

If Josten pried, Andrew only bought the walnuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out other awesome works at the [atfgexchange](http://aftgexchange.tumblr.com/)! a special thanks to defractum and adele-czerny @ tumblr for putting all of this together, esp considering the busy time. feel free to visit my blog [here](http://unkingly.tumblr.com) if you like gross amounts of tfc-, fic- and fandom-related things.
> 
> happy holidays, everyone! hope this found you and yours well.


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